


Right Where I Belong

by foxxandbeanz



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Future Character Death, Past/Future Fic, olicity - Freeform, slight AU, time travel?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:31:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6331126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxxandbeanz/pseuds/foxxandbeanz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the winter of 2015, Oliver Queen is presumed dead following his duel with Ra's al Ghul prompting Felicity Smoak to walk away from Team Arrow.</p>
<p>In 2022, Oliver is struggling to come to terms with a loss of his own. </p>
<p>When special forces bring the past and future together, is it to right a wrong or is it just a long goodbye?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Right Where I Belong

-Felicity – Winter 2015-

“You don’t get it. There is no this without him. It’s done. I’m done.”

 

She manages to say the words without breaking apart. Barely. Her throat strains to keep her words steady even as a tremble runs through her arm and she clenches her fist around John’s forgotten gauze to hide it. 

She makes it up the stairs. Gripping the rail the whole way. Afraid to look back and find the pieces of her heart strewn across the cold, metal steps. She actually turns the lights out on them, which may have been a little petulant. But she doesn’t care as she shoves blindly through Verdant’s emergency exit. Not bothering to check if anyone sees her flight.

The only thing holding her together as she slumps over her steering wheel is anger. A growing black hole just behind her ribs that now threatens to swallow anything in its path. She noticed it when Malcom Merlyn first appeared unannounced in their secret headquarters. The man that tried to kill Oliver multiple times. That made his own daughter a murderer. That forced Oliver’s hand in this whole mess. But it isn’t just Merlyn.

Roy had stood there with practically nothing to say, like he was resigned to it even after everything he’s seen, after everything Oliver has done for him. While John made them all just accept Oliver’s fate. Made her say the words. Waiting for her to cry against his stupidly massive chest. Because Oliver is . . . 

No. It isn’t fair. And she isn’t ready. He’d been gone for five years. And he came back. Now, John is willing to give up on him after five days. They both know Oliver better than that. He will fight. He will come back. 

Felicity unclenches her knuckles from the wheel to smack her open palm against it. Repeatedly. The other hand joins in until her whole body is in it, and she loses a shoe beneath her seat. She should have said something. Done something. Instead of just staring at him with his bag over his shoulder and his heart achingly displayed all over his face. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t say anything. She couldn’t even move. Because that was the moment she started holding her breath.

She is an idiot. She let Oliver make a decision for both of them. She . . . . left her mother fraking coat and purse downstairs!

 

-Oliver – Summer 2022-

Oliver pauses outside the door to the loft. 

He just needs a minute. Another minute. To collect himself. To wipe his face of just a little of the anguish and exhaustion he can’t escape. The defeat, he doesn’t want anyone to know about. It is so much harder than it used to be, after years of not having to hide anything. Of not wanting to. 

He braces his arm on the rough exposed brick wall next to the door and lest his head fall. But he doesn’t allow himself to close his eyes. That would be too dangerous. No, he focuses on the precise masonry two inches from his nose. A perfect line of grey mortar between deep red bricks. And when that is the only thing he sees, he focuses on his breathing. 

Oliver has gasped his way through countless broken ribs, a pneumothorax, near drownings and strangulations. Breathing has never been this hard. Now, he takes three deep breaths and starts to tremble. He shakes his head as he tenses up, trying to gain control. Because he doesn’t have a choice. He has to breathe. He has to get up in the morning. He has to do his job. He has to . . . live.

And the reason why is on the other side of the wall. That makes opening the door the easiest thing in the world.

There aren’t any lights on but like always the Star City skyline shines through the floor to ceiling windows. A giant night-light. A welcome constant. The fireplace dances in blue flames without a sound. And Thea jumps up from her spot on the couch, advancing quickly, as soon as he crosses the threshold.

“Ollie?” It is an accusatory whisper. Her eyebrows knit tight as she looks him over with both anger and concern. Both he’s earned. So, he doesn’t say anything as he brushes past her. Her outstretched hand ghosting over his forearm. He hadn’t told her, or anyone, where he was going or when he’d be back. That was three days ago.

He crosses the room to flick off the fire. 

“Where the hell have you been?” Thea is toe to toe with him when he turns around. Her delivery so like their mother it’s uncanny. 

He easily side steps her tiny road block.

She follows him, quick brisk steps to counter his determined stride. “I thought you were done with this.”

This. This? He reels around at that. One hand clenching at his side, the other coming up to point warningly right in his sister’s face. He won’t ever be done. He will never stop trying. The sheen of his eyes may betray the rush of rage in his veins but his voice doesn’t. “Thea. Go home.”

She actually eases back then. But, like him, she doesn’t give up easily.

“You look like crap,” comes with her particular bite when he is nearly at the stairs. He pauses when she asks much more softly, “Are you okay?” 

He looks at her, his mouth opening but no sound following. His brow too prominent over bloodshot eyes. Shoulders suddenly sagging. Trademark stubble uneven. More lines in his face than she remembers.

She has the tact to look apologetic. “Physically okay?”

“Thea,” he pleads with her. “Yes. I’m – I’m going upstairs now.”

She nods just once. “Okay.” Then slides her arms around his neck before he can move. She hugs him fiercely, like she had as a little girl. Like she can somehow hold him together. Oliver lets her, his chin sinking into her shoulder. When he finally gives in and his own arms band around her, he is glad for how solid she has become over the years, how strong. 

She pulls back after a long minute, her hands still on his shoulders. “She’s been asleep for hours. We painted each nails, talked about boys, then raided your Russian vodka, and dance party-ed until we puked.” 

She slips away toward the door. Oliver is half way up the stairs before he processes what she said. He pivots instantly to find her grinning up at him. Though it doesn’t sway his response. “None of that had better be true. None.”

He doesn’t wait to see Thea leave, just hears the dull click of the lock. He finds new energy on the stairs. There is a scolding hot shower in his future. And the comfort that his own bed miraculously still brings him. But first –

The door to the second bedroom is open a little more than a crack. Oliver pushes gently until there is just enough space for him to slide through. He isn’t all that surprised to find a giant pair of clear blue eyes smiling up at him. She is kind of a night owl. But he tilts his head at her with a tiny smirk.

Then she smacks her chubby fingered hands against the crib railing, bouncing up and down on the balls of her tiny feet with a gurgle of joy. Everything in Oliver’s body relaxes at that, the tension, the frustration, even the bone deep fatigue melts away, and the smile that spreads across his face is nothing short of glorious. 

Oliver crosses the room in a heartbeat and crouches down until he is eye to eye with his daughter, just the bars of her bed between them. He brings his finger up to tap her little nose. “You fooled Aunt Thea. Again.” 

Her giggled response chases the darkness of the last few days from Oliver’s mind. He lifts her up into his arms and she immediately burrows into his chest giving him the perfect vantage point to kiss the top of her head, before burying his nose in her barely there dark blonde curls. He stays just like that until she starts to wriggle against him.

“Da da.”

“Hi, Baby.” 

He shifts her to one side so she can see him. He takes a good look at her too. “Where are your PJs?” She’s wearing a onesie that reads “My Favorite Color is Glitter”, glitter included, and some ridiculous baby leg warmers. There’s a matching oversized headband long lost in the corner of the crib. And he and Thea will definitely be talking about all of that, later.

“Sorry Kid,” he offers in an exaggerated whisper as he sets her down on the changing table. “Your Aunt was raised in couture. And your Grandma was raised in Vegas. You never had a chance.”

He swaps Thea’s attempt at humor for cupcake adorned footie pajamas, more befitting his one year old, with only a necessary amount of tickles and raspberries. But it’s enough to tire her out. Her head thunks sleepily against Oliver’s collarbone when he lifts her to his shoulder again. And she snags a handful of shirt as her fist scrunches up, followed by her arms and legs until he’s left with warm ball of baby girl. Her eyelids droop a couple of times only to pop back open like she’s suddenly remembered something. 

Then there’s a whimper. And another.

“Hey, hey,” Oliver’s open hand covers her entire back as he tries to soothe her. But she’s almost at a full blown cry.

“Muhma. Muhma.”

He knew it was coming but it still brings his heart to a violent stop. He bites down hard on his bottom lip, afraid what sound will come out if he doesn’t. Squeezing his eyes shut sets tears running down each cheek.

His breath stutters when he finally lets go of the one he was holding. “Shh, shh. I miss Mama, too,” he says because it’s the undeniable truth, and it’s all he’s got. And all he can do tonight is try to lull their daughter to sleep.

 

-Felicity-

Felicity spins slowly, taking in her surroundings for about the hundredth time. But she still can’t make sense of it. 

She remembers storming out on John and Roy. She remembers remembering that in her haste she stupidly left literally all her things downstairs. For the sake of a dramatic exit. She could picture them with perfect clarity. Her purse, phone, and personal tablet all on the left side of her desk. Her tan wool coat was draped over Oliver’s work station. She didn’t even have her car keys. She’d just been so preoccupied that she forgot to lock her doors earlier. In the Glades. 

She’d stopped herself from completely losing it, in that particular moment. But she couldn’t face Digg again, not tonight. So she just waited. Until they were gone. And then she slipped back down the stairs, the click and clang of her heels never so deafening before. 

She just meant to take her things and go. She picked up her phone. But as her eyes scanned the space where she’d spent so much time, where they had spent so much time - she lingered. She’d run her hand over the cold stainless steel tabletops, picking up one of Oliver’s abandoned arrow heads, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger. And when she looked at the glass case with his bow and hood inside, she hadn’t stopped. She opened it. She carefully pulled the green jacket from the mannequin and slipped her arms through it and let it engulf her. She’d sat down in her chair and let herself have that moment, so glad that the jacket still smelled like him, that it somehow instantly made her feel warm and safe. 

She must have fallen asleep.

Because now, she is standing in a long abandoned space. It can’t be the Foundry. And yet, so many of the things she knows are supposed to be there, are there. More or less. Mostly less. Over turned silver tables, trashed computer monitors, mannequin limbs strewn amid broken glass, her chair. All of it covered in multiple layers of dust and grime. 

But it just isn’t possible. 

Well, she can imagine that it’s possible. She just doesn’t like the implications.

Felicity had only closed her eyes for a few minutes. She is still wearing Oliver’s jacket. She is pressing the arrowhead painfully into her palm. Her phone – She definitely heard it clatter to the floor when she woke up. She crouches to search almost blindly for it at her feet, realizing then how dark it is. Her hand finally closing around it.

“Okay, Felicity, you got this.” She is surprised it’s taken her this to start talking to herself.

She goes straight for her recent call log and redials the last number she’d called. It rings too many times.

“Hello?”

“John, thank god. I’m sorry. I know the last time that we talked I stormed out. And we should talk about that. We will talk about that. But right now, I’m at the Foundry. Although, I’m pretty sure it is not the Foundry anymore. I just - woke up here. I think I may have been drugged. I’m fine, I think, but I’m getting the sense that some time has passed. Like maybe a lot of -“ She is one hundred percent sure she would have kept going.

But she is interrupted, rather forcefully. “Who the hell is this?”

The harshness in his voice not just his question has her heart racing. “It’s me, John. It’s Felicity.” 

 

“Felicity Smoak is dead.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think. It's been awhile since I put fingertips to keyboard. My past Olicity works can be found on fanfiction.net. -XOXO foxxandbeanz


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